


anemones

by orphan_account



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Eating Disorders, I'm Sorry, M/M, Projections, Romanticization, Starvation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24113191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What was a better feeling than the liberation he experienced once his one meal of the day was drowned in the sewers And his body empty of every concievable thought?
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	anemones

**Author's Note:**

> Important note! This is mostly a vent fic. I'm projecting heavily onto Goro and what is written is how I had percieved my ED (of course I'm changing for the better). This is in no way trying to convince you ED is a romantic experience and I'm simply venting what I had felt to make myself feel better at the expenses of Akechi. I write as a coping mechanism and I don't mean to offend anyone, I'm just sharing my thoughts albeit as weird as they are.

Akechi was good at hiding things. A little _too_ good.

So it was not out of the norm when he had sat in the red vintage booth, beside an array of strange characters, eating the aromatic curry laid before him. It was also no surprise he easily mustered his usual charming smile from beneath the cleaned spoon, nodding his compliments to the chef for the delicate intricacy that is curry spice and ground coffee beans mixed favourably against his palette. Perfectly normal and none the wiser. 

Of course it wasn’t a surprise. It couldn’t be now, not when he had been practicing this little trick of his for years now. It was a simple one, really. He just needed some gritted teeth, a dash of patience, and an audience to fool. And all he had to do was pretend the sinking feeling of food sliding and sticking to his insides was nothing but a fleeting thought and the heavy weight at the bottom of his stomach was but an itch he’ll scratch later. Ignore the way his fingers twitched, aching to feel his nails scrape against the back of his throat until it corroded with acid and tattered remnants of his self-indulgence. Viola, easy enough and he adored the satisfaction he felt as he watched his audience fall right into his trap of ignorant bliss, exactly where he had wanted them to be. It took far too long to get it down, and he took it in strides when he was the only one to know about it. A magician never revealed his secret after all. 

He even went as far as asking for seconds after he polished his first plate before it turned cold. Nobody would bat an eye, not when they were just as guilty of being absolute gluttons, especially when it came to on-the-house curry and coffee blends. Sojiro would affectionately smile, another serving coming right up. Everyone else would soon follow, gorging themselves on their lack of self-restraint; something Akechi was frankly a little jealous of at times. 

When he returned back to his reserved apartment, scattered his tie and top shirt buttons upon entrance, he wasted not another moment in any other place than where he rightfully belonged and full-heartedly embraced to be a second home inside his home. His knees crashed against the bathroom tiles, sending a dull jolt up his bones, one he was too familiar with at this point and welcomed to keep him grounded. 

It was intimate, the relationship he had with his toilet. They’ve shared far too many nights together, bound by a pact that could no longer be broken. He loved to be on top, in control; thrived off of it. He was in control. 

He was hunched over the bowl and lovingly gripped the seat until his knuckles turned the same shade as the clean porcelain. He slid his wet fingers across his tongue, pressed down against his muscle eliciting a small groan against the slicked digits. He dared venture further, making sure to gradually add more and more pressure with every centimetre he travelled. He released his hold on the ceramic so he could sweep his hair back, leaning into his palms as it stroked his cheek, before returning it back to where it previously sat. 

Then his wrist jerked, his finger scraped right against the back of his throat. One, he only whined, the sensation of pressure in that exact spot not being the first nor the last. Two, he felt his stomach lurch with the gag, but not enough. Three, his body jolted with the disgusting retch that tore through his lungs and he sucked it up like air.

It was on the fourth shove, with a little more aggression and so much more desperation, that he could finally rip his fingers out from his mouth, followed by his early dinner. He spewed and mewled, the rush clawing right up his esophagus and sputtered into the murky waters below. His guts painted a pretty picture of a milky way, speckled and glimmering, swirling in the white ceramic. He gasped, the feeling of a cumbersome anchor deep in the bellows of his stomach finally relieved and, god, did it feel downright euphoric. It was beyond liberating and he had to rest his forehead against the cool seat to calm himself down. 

_Again,_ his brain egged him. _Again, until your heart gets lodged in your throat, until all you could feel dripping down your face is saliva and the coffee he so willing gulped down and not the tears. Again._

It would be a while until the group would meet up for another round of food if you considered two weeks a while. This time, it wasn’t another study session, but rather an end. Finals were over and they all agreed it was time to kick back and binge on celebratory snacks and movies at their favourite cafe, up in their favourite attic, crowded into and around their favourite raggedy bed.

It was halfway through the film that everyone decidedly branched out into separate talks with each other without so much of a second glance on the TV screen as they passed bags and boxes. He was about to reach for a cup when cut right through their chatter someone offhandedly piped up, “Akechi, did you lose weight?” It effectively sliced any other conversations thin, and then seven pairs of eyes followed.

He was not expecting the merits of his shape to be questioned, no amount of training could’ve ever prepared him for this. Not when he was so careful that he thought he wouldn’t have needed it. He was sure Ann, ever so thoughtful and caring Ann, had mentioned it only as an observation, a discussion, a passing remark, nothing more. But it had so helplessly hung him suspended in fear, held taut and tight that he couldn’t seem to break free. What was he to do when he was getting laid bare, his only defense getting stripped by each sentence? 

“Now that you mention it,” Ryuji squinted at him, his eyes digging its fangs deep into his skin, dissecting him. “You do look thinner. Are you eating properly, dude?”

“That’s not good, Akechi,” Makoto chimed her two cents. “You should be eating three balanced meals a day.”

“Yeah, you don’t want to end up a twig like Inari,” Futaba snorted. 

He had to say something, anything, he couldn’t just sit there, they’d get suspicious, he’d get found, what would he do then, what would he even say-

“Akechi.” Akira spoke for the first time throughout this entire ordeal. Another silence washed over the scene as everyone turned to the boy, lured by his dominating voice, laced with a calm firmness of a leader figure that without fail always snatched their attention. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes,” he rushed, his composure pooling around his hammering heart, steeling his heated nerves. “Finals took quite a toll on me it seems and I haven’t been keeping up with my daily intake. I’m sure now that it’s over, I will be fine. Thank you all for worrying, though, truly.” And, a cherry on top a sweet lie, he flashed his smile all curved in fraudulent sincerity. But it worked, he pulled another trick out from his sleeve and played his cards right and before long, they had dropped it. The group all hummed their responses, finding interest in the topic of eating out today on behalf of Akechi and their overall wellness since, yes, finals were stressful and his story had been very plausible. 

All but one, Akira, who still trailed his eyes on Akechi. And on Akechi they stayed, all through sushi. Gauging his every twitch of the face as he shoved rolls over rolls, crammed into his mouth, and slivered in calculating gazes. 

He had a worse time that night when he vomited the tangled remains of the night out. Even as he peered at the mess he made inside the bowl, he couldn’t think of anyone but Akira. The name clumped at the bottom of his airway and he could almost feel the betrayal his nighttime lover felt when he sobbed the raven’s name instead. He shivered, thinking about the worry etched in his features, only for Akechi. It was almost laughable how easily he submitted to it, throwing the idea that maybe it was genuine. Maybe the soft expression, the concern gleaming underneath his ruffled bangs and tinted glasses, was real. 

What was more laughable was how quickly he forgot it all when he felt the horrid bubbling regret wrench his gut and he hurled the rest of his meal. 

It was shortly after yet another television appearance with two overbearing hosts and his own chipper facade that he began to dwindle. The imprints of everyone’s stare marred his skin, scoring against the empty shell he falsely considered a brain. It was less that and more his own demon, eating him inside out, feeding off his need for validation. _I’ve been such a good boy,_ it echoed, _look how well I’m disciplining myself for you. Look at me more, give me a false sense of meaning,_ he would wordlessly beg to the sea of blank slate faces all tuned to him. 

When the cameras shut, so did he. Somehow, one way or another, his feet found their way back to his imprisonment locked beneath the sink and dimming restroom bulbs. He tried his best, but his mask was slipping off his face, the strings tying him down unravelling at the seams. When was the last he had eaten? Well, it mattered not anymore. He’s made it too far to let go. If he succumbed to weakness, now, how else was he to prove to himself… what was he trying to prove again? 

The thought escaped him, fleeting from his perception. He couldn’t think anything anymore, it felt like his entire being was about to simultaneously collapse in on itself and burst outward. The only remedy he knew was leaning over the toilet and heaving up all the melted water that sloshed in his vacant abdomen, heaving until the only taste on his tongue was the flare of acid gliding down his buds. It spread throughout his body, setting ablaze his skin and he couldn’t make out his own reflection in the opaque water through the haze that blinded him. The tears fell along with what little strength he had left, plopping one after another, unbridled. 

Then his shoulder collided with the floor.

“Akechi, Akechi,” a thin train of his name carved itself deep into his eardrums, dragging him out of the stark black. “Akechi, please wake up,” the voice stuttered into an onslaught of sniffles. It sounded so distant, so far, that he wasn’t fully aware of it until he felt something hot and wet splash against his cheek. A drop, fresh and salty, trickled down his dry skin and he soaked in the feeling. Then another one, then another, until the sixth one urged his eyelids open. 

“Akechi!” he was unceremoniously greeted with a deathly hug, his face filled with black curls and a pair of unforgiving glasses pressed harshly against his shoulder. “I thought you had died, you weren’t picking up any of your calls, I messaged Sae but she didn’t know where you were, and when I arrived here your door was unlocked and you were unconscious and I called the police and I-”

Akechi’s head stumbled, tumbled, with what it was trying to process all at once. It hadn’t completely registered who’s arms he was so tightly chained in until the bombardment of words hit him. He’s never heard the man be so obnoxiously talkative before and in any other state, other than his current headache induced fight for his very sanity, he would've cooed in endearment. 

“Akira?” his voice nearly fled his reach, but he held onto it strong enough to mutter out a name followed by a pained groan. His throat burned. 

The man responded to Akira. He loosened his hold, much to Akechi’s silent disdain, and pulled back enough so they could meet eyes. The raven looked like a mess, his charcoal locks somehow even more unruly and matted and his eyes puffed red and sad as if he had just cried enough tears to extinguish all of hell’s fore ten times over. By the way his eyes dropped so uncharacteristically along with his lips that were more often smiling than not, he could tell he himself probably looked worse. 

How long was he passed out for? He couldn’t make sense of it, his skull thundered with nausea and deep-rooted pain. 

“Please just hold on a little longer,” and dear lord, his voice sounded so grated, torn to shreds but he still continued to spill sympathies to the best of his abilities; empty at best, a mockery at worse, but Akechi devoured every last bit. 

Akechi wasn’t sure if this was more than just a figment of his imagination, more than his heart conjuring a sense of relief in his dying moments to make it worth the wait. He was all too ready to chalk it up to nothing more than an illusion, something his disgusting brain mold got right, and he wished it would never disappear like a magician’s trick. 

He raised his hand, trembling and uncertain, he wasn’t even sure if it belonged to him, but he was moving it nonetheless. From where it had fallen all the way up to Akira’s cheek, travelling said expansion of the universe for his skin to make contact. He cringed when he realised dried saliva and grime still clung to his digits, the one he previously rammed right into his throat and gagged around. But Akira didn't move away, which he took as a green light. His fingers rubbed, pressed, pulled against the smooth field of his cheek, grounding him, confirming him. He felt so empty and his touch-starved cells ached, devouring everything he could reach and more. His thumb swiped against the invisible path of tears dirtying his skin, shuddered in the way Akira nuzzled against his palm. He was here. This was real.

The very idea of someone, anyone at all, was crying for him when he hadn't deserved any of it was too baffling and it being Akira of all people made it twice as unbelievable. The latter had always seemed so out of touch, dislocated in another reality than Akechi’s. There was an infinity plus one solar systems between the two, a vast expansion of impossibility, Akechi was so sure of that, and yet here he was. No more than ten inches apart, only a breath away, only a blink. 

“Akira,” he choked out a sob. “Akira, _Akira,”_ the name overflooded his mouth, thrown out of his lips like a mantra. It didn’t take long for him to be shuddering from the weight of the world crashing down against his chest, punching every last ounce out of him, and he could barely even draw a breath without more expletives and ugly cries. He tried so much to resist the gravitational pull of every blackhole taking the shape of judgemental sneers, ulterior motives mistaken for faux affection, and a need to endlessly satiate the millions of people who watched his every move. He wasn’t sure where throwing up was dragged into the mixture, but it pushed and pulled along with the tide of redemption, and stuck with him through his darkest hours until it became them. 

“I’m here, I’m right here,” Akira’s voice lowered, ghosting against the shell of his ear in calming waves. “Breathe, Akechi.” 

He gasped, coughed, hacked but inhaled as much as his lungs could take. There were undoubtedly gross wakes of bodily fluids clinging to his face, disgusting and unsightly, but he couldn’t bring himself to give another damn anymore. It was acceptance, he couldn't pretend to be strong when his very being was ripped at the seams and he prayed to whatever sick God was out there that Akira was the only one who could stitch him back together. 

Between his wheezes, the fingers curled in the damp fabric of Akira’s shirt clenched and he’d regurgitate another string of, “Please, don’t leave me, please, please, please-”

Akechi felt rough hands, larger than his own and so warm, hold the one he used to caress Akira’s cheeks. The strong, comforting arms that held him so preciously, like a home inside his home, pulled him closer until the only thing he could see, smell, taste, feel, hear was Akira. It filled him up until he was teetering to the brink, until every pore in his body leaked sweat and need and want. He relinquished the control he worked so hard to gain right up, he was in Akira’s loving embrace and that was all that mattered now. 

He was _so_ hungry.

“It’s okay, I’m not leaving,” he whispered, low, breathtaking, more intimate than whatever he had built with his toilet the past few years, a secret only the two of them will share. “I’ll always be here for you, I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was somewhat enjoyable despite the undertones of it. Thank you for reading!


End file.
